


Love in a Time of Ubiquitous Surveillance

by NienteZero



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Honestly it's been a very stressful week and characters should just avoid me, Hurt/Comfort, Napoleon Whump, Pre-OT3, shameless h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NienteZero/pseuds/NienteZero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actions have consequences, and Solo's not getting off scot free for disobeying CIA orders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in a Time of Ubiquitous Surveillance

Of course it was an alleyway. Of course Solo was on his own. Gaby and Illya deserved time to themselves sometimes. The three of them were getting on famously, and it was understood that they would be three, one of these days. But before it could be all of them together, Gaby and Illya had some communication differences to sort out. Things that never quite got said. 

So Solo had gone for a drink in one of Istanbul's sexy little night spots. He wasn't looking for a woman to bring back to the hotel tonight. But he was happy to flirt and dance to the bright music, holding a French woman close while a local singer crooned through a Dean Martin song, and showing off his fancy footwork with a dark-eyed Turkish beauty when the music switched to American rock and roll.

Now he was wandering back to the hotel through the cobblestoned streets of Nisantasi, enjoying the warm breezes and the sounds of lovers talking and laughing in cafés, the rich smell of the local coffee tempting him to stop for a small glass of the thick brew. He was off his guard. Their little international crisis had been dealt with almost discreetly, and there was no reason to fear reprisal. So of course that was when strong, rough hands pulled him into a narrow, dimly lit alley.

"Solo," the sneering voice of his old handler, Sanders, said. "Didn't think you'd seen the back of me, did you?"

Sanders wasn't alone. He wasn't even doing the manhandling. Solo looked to his left and his right, to the two men holding his arms. He recognized them, though he'd never had to work closely with them. They were more in the wetworks line. That wasn't good.

"Well, sir, I did think that conferring with you was no longer required, now that I am reporting to Mister Waverly," Solo said, choosing to let his lips twitch into a self-satisfied smirk. 

On the one hand, antagonizing Sanders was a terrible idea. On the other hand, the sooner that Solo could irritate Sanders into action, the sooner this farce would be over.

"You might be working with that prissy Brit, but the CIA still owns your ass, and don't you forget it," Sanders said. "You had orders, and you disobeyed them, and I think it's time you remembered that actions have consequences."

It wasn't a surprise when the next thing Sanders did was throw a solid punch right into Solo's solar plexus, driving the wind out of him. He would have bent double but he was being held upright by Sanders' two pet murderers, their hands tight on his wrists. On the whole, between whistling attempts to get enough breath into his lungs, Solo was grateful that Sanders was the one doing the hitting.

Sanders wound up again and threw another jab lower down. Solo grunted. He wondered how much of this lesson there was. Sanders looked Solo in the eye, and seemed unsatisfied with what he saw. Not enough contrition, probably, Solo thought. He'd never been good at regretting things he'd done. Only at regretting being caught.

"Jolly, take over," Sanders ordered. That was right, one of the wetworks thugs was called Jolly, Peter Jolly. It had always struck Solo as grimly ironic. 

Jolly's companion adjusted his position so that he was holding both of Solo's arms behind his back. Solo did his best to break free when Jolly let go of his arm, but all he managed was to get his arms yanked back hard enough that his shoulders registered a complaint.

Jolly looked essentially bored as he administered a rather thorough series of body blows to Solo's stomach and ribs. As if laying into a man until he was wheezing for breath and biting down on his lip to keep from uttering a cry of pain was just one more chore to check off his to-do list.

Sanders, on the other hand, couldn't hide his delight in the punishment Solo was taking. He'd always had a grudge against Solo, always resented the way Solo appeared to glide easily through the world.

After a minute that felt much longer, Sanders held up his hand for Jolly to stop. Solo gasped in a deep breath and spat blood from his ragged lower lip.

"Now, Solo, suppose you tell me why you disobeyed a direct order to bring the computer tape in. The reds turn you already?" Sanders sneered, "that why you burned the tape?"

Napoleon was ready for that question. He wasn't such a fool as to think he'd never have to answer for that particular action, no matter what optimistic platitudes Alexander Waverly offered about international cooperation. 

"Well, sir, you saw me fight the Russian in the toilet. You know I couldn't beat him in a fair fight. I thought it better that the tape be destroyed than fall into Soviet hands."

Sanders nodded at Jolly, who drove his fist into Solo's jaw, making his teeth clack together and his neck wrench back. He tasted more blood, and he smiled grimly. Never let the bastards see you sweat.

"Your orders were to kill the Russian if necessary. You must have had a chance during the Vinciguerra raid to take him out, but you didn't. You soft on commies, Solo? Because it looks that way."

"No sir, I just used my best judgement while helping to avert a nuclear crisis," Solo said, pronouncing each word with utter care not to slur. He could feel bruising coming up already. He hated feeling out of control of the situation, and words were the only control he had left.

"You're not paid to use your best judgement," Sanders snapped. "You're paid to follow orders. You let your country down and it doesn't look good. You don't get off the hook for this one."

"Well, when you're giving me orders again, you can hold me accountable. Right now, I'm with UNCLE. So if we're quite finished here, I've got better things to do than loiter in back alleys with the CIA's finest," Napoleon said, going for brazen. What did he have to lose?

"I can hold you accountable now, and I will," Sanders said. "Apparently you're a slow learner. Jolly, the nightstick."

Jolly didn't need further instructions. He laid into Solo with a vigor belied by the entirely bored expression on his face. This time instead of his fists, he used a short, vicious billy club to drive Sanders' point home. Solo hunched forward in the grip of the man holding him, bracing against the brutal blows. Jolly mostly stuck to the ribs, but every now and then he'd swing the club lower, driving it into Solo's stomach until Solo could no longer hold back from crying out in pain.

"Enough," Sanders finally said. "I hope you got the point, Solo. We can get to you. We can find you. If we want to, we can disappear you. The company has resources, and I'm not above using them to take out a traitor to the United States. A few years ago you lifted some state jewels from an exiled Kyrzbekistani minister. Well, that feller's back in power now, and you're on the Kyrzbekistan most wanted list. I hear they cut a man's hand off if he's a thief there. Or I'm sure we can find a country where they'll cut your balls off for being a womanizing creep," Sanders said. He was breathing heavily, seemingly excited by the power he was exerting over Solo. 

The cold thrill of real danger ran through Solo. The beating, that was just recreational sadism to Sanders. Solo had been a soldier, he'd been a thief, and he was a spy. Pain wasn't that meaningful to him. But the threat to hand him over to be thrown into a Kyrzbekistani prison, the threat to his hands, his livelihood. Well, Sanders knew how to hit below the belt.

Sanders puffed up importantly as he issued orders to Solo. 

"You're going to go back to your hotel, back to that cozy arrangement with the two commies, and you're going to tell them you picked the wrong woman to sleaze on, or the wrong pocket to pick and that's how you got a beating. They should have no trouble believing you got yourself in trouble. Then you're going to milk every piece of information you can out of Mister KGB and Miss Stasi, and run it back to me by the usual channels."

Sanders leaned in, spittle unpleasantly hitting Solo's face as he spoke angrily: "If you don't come through, then believe me, I'll make you disappear. You'll spend the rest of your worthless life in a prison a whole hell of a lot less comfortable than the one you were headed for stateside."

Solo widened his eyes, his face a mask of fear that seemed to satisfy Sanders. It wasn't hard to look afraid. His whole body hurt, and no matter what happened next, things were probably going to get exciting.

Sanders snapped his fingers, and the brute behind Solo let him go. He stumbled forward, and turned to lean facing the wall, fighting a wave of heavy nausea as he rested his head on his arm, comforted by the solidity of the rough brick wall under his hand.

"Go see if you can't do something to make yourself useful. Fuck the girl, or even the Russian, if you need to, but you better convince them to give up some useful intelligence, or you know what's coming."

Napoleon heard the tread of a familiar footstep. He smiled privately, his back still to Sanders as he leaned heavily on the wall.

"That might be more difficult than you think," he said, aware that like it or not, he was definitely slurring his words now.

"I don't want excuses!" Sanders snapped.

"Will be hard to trick the Russian when the Russian heard the whole conversation," Napoleon heard Illya say as his footsteps entered the alley.

Napoleon thought perhaps he should turn around and join in the fight he could hear going on behind him, Illya wading in to take on Sanders, Jolly, and the other CIA killer single-handedly. But the world was spinning obnoxiously, and while he wouldn't mind throwing up on Sanders, he didn't want to throw up on his own shoes. He'd already dripped blood down his Hermes tie.

Solo lost track of time, but suddenly the alley was very quiet. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, wobbling at the sudden movement.

"Cowboy," Illya said, holding out his arm to support Napoleon, "couldn't even take down three CIA? You need to work on your hand to hand." 

"Wanted to hear what Sanders had up his sleeve, and I knew you'd come," Napoleon gasped out. He really wanted to get back to the hotel and lie down with a glass of whisky.

"You left Gaby at the hotel I hope?" he asked, as he limped out of the alley, supported by Illya. Sanders and the pair of bruisers lay strewn about like yesterday's newspaper, and Solo couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the aches and pains they'd wake up with.

"Left Gaby two blocks away," Illya said, "She wouldn't stay, and I would not let her closer to the fight."

Under the streetlight Solo could see that Illya's shirt was buttoned crookedly and he had a smudge of lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

Gaby ghosted out of the shadow of a building. "No one 'lets' me do anything," she said. "I'll go where I please. How else will I look after you two idiots?"

She slid in beside Solo, supporting him on the opposite side to where Illya was holding him up.

"Your idiot, I hope?" he said, shooting for charming and landing somewhere around pathetic.

"Of course. Solo, when we heard Sanders get you, we came as fast as we could," she said, her tone softening. 

"Peril needs to work on his timing. I really didn't need the part with the nightstick," Solo joked. 

"Get in less trouble," Illya said, "my timing is fine." 

"About that," Solo said, "You heard what Sanders threatened me with. It might be a bit hot around me for a while."

"Will take care of it, Cowboy," Illya said, "One of us is good spy."

Solo felt too weary to think of a smart answer, so he just smirked and leaned into Illya a bit more, thankful for their mutual lack of trust. 

The Russian saying was 'doveryai, no proveryai', trust but verify. Which in practice meant that he and Illya were still bugging each other at every possible step, and he wasn't sure that Gaby hadn't started turning her mechanical skills toward surveillance. It was perfect for them - the safety of knowing that they couldn't be made to betray each other, they couldn't be forced into holding secrets. After all, Illya's former handler was still a threat, too.

As they made the short walk back to the hotel, sliding into the shadows to avoid the curious gazes of the locals, Solo soaked up the comfort and warmth of having two people who'd keep their listening devices turned on for him.

**Author's Note:**

> 51PegasiB encouraged me to write this, and then encouraged me to go ahead and post it. Support is a lovely thing.


End file.
